


tearing through you

by screamlet



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen, POV Female Character, POV Second Person, Post Reichenbach, Work In Progress, happy birthday zlot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 06:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,312
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/screamlet/pseuds/screamlet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's strange, but once you've been involved in a conspiracy or two and you’ve actually taken part in faking deaths, taking names—from dead people, stillborns, where ever—you can't help but see conspiracies everywhere. You really hope it’s just your imagination.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tearing through you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [zlot](https://archiveofourown.org/users/zlot/gifts).



> For darling zlot on her 26th birthday, when all she wanted was fic about Molly.  
> (Spoilers through S2.)

No one has to introduce Irene Adler. You once helped her disappear, as a favor to Sherlock, but that didn't involve handshakes and smiles. Even though it was a matter of working with reports and paper trails, you know this is Irene. You know because John once called her "a lady Sherlock" and you see this woman, standing in your lab, with those cheekbones, that confidence radiating off her because you're the only one scheduled here all day and she doesn't have to pretend to be anyone else. She doesn't have to act for you. You've never met, but you know each other; you've seen each other's effects on other people well enough that you know what to expect here, in the flesh.

"I need to know about John," she says.

"Isn't that what surveillance equipment is for?"

"Surveillance is so impersonal," Irene sighs. "It says a lot, but not what I want to know. I can't ask CCTV _how was your day_?"

"Well, that’s lovely. I guess there's the next level of creepiness we can expect from them," you say.

Irene's hair is down, curly, pulled back with a sloppy elastic, you’d almost call it _frizzy._ She's wearing a lab coat and slacks, which are similar to yours and every pair of light grey "professional woman" slacks sold in the world. You think this is how Irene wants to look all the time (okay, maybe not frizzy). Maybe she wants to wear slightly oversized slacks that need to be hemmed, a large coat that makes her look larger than she is, her hair pulled back but something in her face suggests she's used to her hair being tighter, pulling back on her skin. She smiles more than you thought she would. 

You're projecting, you think as you shake your head a little to clear your thoughts. Why would Irene want to look like you unless she absolutely had to?

You wonder how many people have copied your access card and why _no one notices_ the disturbing number of people who check into Bart's every day as Molly Hooper. Maybe they're paid not to notice.

(It's strange, but once you've been involved in a conspiracy or two and you’ve actually taken part in faking deaths, taking names—from dead people, stillborns, where ever—you can't help but see conspiracies everywhere. You really hope it’s just your imagination.)

You realize it's only you and Irene today. That she's dressing like you and she could probably get into this part of the building as you without a card because she's better at being you than you are. You wonder how good Irene is at disguises, changing her body from this confident creature to you, who barely makes eye contact with the people in the cafeteria. It's staggering, thinking of the effort possibly involved in that when it takes you so much to stand up straight and not babble when spoken to. 

Sherlock never hunched his shoulders for the guards or offered a tiny, shy smile before rushing through, every piece of posture and presentation screaming _oh thank you for not asking thank you thank you_. 

You wonder what lies Sherlock told at the guards' desk. You wonder if you were worth any lies at all. 

"And once I've gotten in touch with him?" you ask.

"Nothing too formal," Irene says. "I'll be back. I'll bring you a coffee and we can sit over there, next to the microscope and stomach cultures, have a little chat about some lads we used to know."

"I wonder why _John_ couldn't have asked me himself," you say _, John_ meaning _Sherlock_ , two completely different sides of the same coin. You've always thought of them like that because someone once described them as such - Lestrade, maybe, or Donovan. Actually, they're more like one disease with very different presentations. Oh, yes, that's so accurate you could _scream_.

They're still a _they_. Will that ever change?

"Well," Irene says, looking up a little like she's really thinking about it. For a second, just a second, you think that you're actually friends, catching up or something. You believe her. You want to believe her. You want, so much. "You're a lifeboat, Molly, on this disastrous cruise ship. And it would be very untoward if we all stopped to sit in the lifeboats on our way to the buffet when there hasn't been a disaster yet."

You think about that for a moment before you declare, "That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."

She laughs. It's terrifying, like her mouth has only the vaguest idea of genuine laughter. You smile anyway. You made her laugh. You stood up straight and spoke to her like it was the easiest thing in the world.

"I'll see you, then," you say. "Once I'm in touch with John."

"You'll see me then," she repeats.

She leaves. You work. She can't be the first person, of all these new people in her life, who has realized that sometimes, you _do_ need to work, but it feels like it.

*

You come back from the loo and there's a cup of coffee, waiting for you, next to a napkin with a spoon and some sugar packets on top. It's not the right number or brand of sugar that you prefer, but you smile at the effort all the same.

You think about drinking it until it's gone cold, and then you dump it. You need to get better at this paranoia thing, because that could have been a perfectly good cup of coffee. You look around as you pour it into the sink and you can almost hear Irene's awkward, foreign laugh.

*

You can't just _call John Watson_. It's been almost a year since Sherlock died. 

Or can you?

Is that so unexpected that it's expected? People fall out of touch all the time, and what brings them back together? It can't possibly be BT's completely obsolete long distance rates. Is it so unheard of that you were scrolling through your phone one day, saw _John Watson_ in your contacts and—

Hang on, what does it actually say in your phone?

 _Dr. Watson_.

You suddenly realize that _you_ never put John Watson's contact information (address, email, phone number, work number, web site, photo— _really_?!) in your phone. You are _definitely_ not close enough mates to ring him up and say, "Hey, I was thinking of you! It's been so long! I thought we could grab a drink!"

Especially when that _reeks_ of sexual desperation when it comes from a woman and you're actually pretty not desperate at the moment, thank you. Not to mention that maybe he got rid of his phone, maybe he dropped it on the street that day (God, _that day_ ) and never picked it up, maybe he's seeing someone pretty seriously and they're the jealous type.

You can't imagine what John Watson is doing, feeling, seeing, anything right now. You honestly don't know if he's even alive, but you think someone would mention if he wasn't. Inspector Lestrade comes to the morgue and your lab regularly, and if anything had happened to John he—

Molly, you _idiot_. 

*

Lestrade shows up uninvited the next morning, so you would have figured it out eventually, wouldn't you?

"Dr. Hooper," he announces as he pulls the door open, Donovan nowhere in sight.

"Detective Inspector," you reply. "What brings you here?"

"Murder, _murder most foul_ ," he says, creeping in, sliding his hand against the chilly counter where you're working so he ends up across from you. He puts on a grotesque expression (one eye, lopsided mouth, bared teeth, probably a hunch, too, he's covering it so well with his coat) so you laugh—and you do, but you also have to tilt your head and raise your eyebrows.

"Your Hamlet's a little more inbred than I remember," you inform him.

"What? I'm not Hamlet, I'm one of the witches. _Macbeth_."

"Ah, that makes more sense. You're a very convincing crone."

"Yeah, but back to the other thing," he says. "You're saying that line's from _Hamlet_? Really? I think I've been lied to my whole life. What a waste."

"But now you know better," you offer, smiling, and you like him. He seems brighter, happier overall, these past months, now that he doesn't walk into the lab with that Sherlock cloud either waiting for him or at his back. It's an awful thing to think, probably, but sometimes, you can't help but know it's true.

You know better, anyway. You made sure he's not dead. Irene asking after John means he's _still_ not dead. (Doesn’t it?) It's not wrong to admit that this once unpleasant person is no longer around so things are less unpleasant—it's just a fact.

(You call Sherlock unpleasant, like you did before he died, but you know better now. You remember the catch in his throat as he lowered himself to ask for your help. You sat in the dark of the lab with him, listened to what had happened since the kidnapping, and you remember his last words to you, before he went up to the roof: _John._ ** _cannot_** _. know._ Unpleasant, yes, but unfeeling, uncaring—you’ll never think of him like that again, not when you can still hear that catch in his voice so perfectly, when you remember him looking away so he can say it again, this time so you couldn’t see his eyes: _John. cannot. know._ )

"Really, though," Lestrade says. "We brought someone over a few days ago. Have you had a chance to look him over?"

"Check outgoing," you reply, motioning to the in/out slots next to the door that he knows very well are there.

"Right, right," he sighs, because you have this conversation every few days and it seems neither of you have mastered summoning objects yet. He flips through the files in outgoing, asks, "This him? John Doe, 50?" He flips the file open and says, "Yup, this is him."

Then he pulls up a stool near you and leans against the lab counter, reading your report. "Fifty, christ," he sighs after a moment. "Hope I look better than this bloke when I'm fifty."

"I thought you were fifty already," you say as you switch to a new slide under the microscope.

"Thanks, Hooper, really."

You throw him a look and you turn back to your slide. "I mean I distinctly remember there being talk last Christmas —"

You stop, because it's now two Christmases you've spent together, and you're not sure when that happened (besides two Christmases ago). It's Sherlock's fault, like so many other things, throwing that sad little party that ended with John's wildly upset girlfriend and you and the detective having a few more drinks at a pub near Baker Street when everything had collapsed around your collective ears.

The next Christmas, this past one, you and Mrs. Hudson were invited to spend it with Lestrade and friends of his, mostly people from the Yard, and that was all right. That was fun, actually. You forget (sometimes deliberately) how much you enjoyed yourself, and how much brighter your work seems, when Greg is around, because that's — yeah.

"Was I whining about turning fifty then? I'm not yet," he says. He huffs a little, looking twelve and not fifty _ish_ , because someone isn't playing fair and it’s probably you.

"Remember —" You laugh, you're about to burst with it, a memory forcing its way out of you. "Remember, Mrs. Hudson had had a few toddys too many and began to tell lecture you on sex after menopause and how it is _fantastic, Greg, it's high time you learned that lesson_."

You know too many men who would react to bringing up this memory with a loud cringe and shouts of _UGH, THANKS, YOU'VE RUINED SEX FOR ME, FOREVER_ , but all Greg does is put the file down for a moment, look off into the distance, and say, "Yeah, that Emma. What a tough one. She’s out of my league."

You turn back to the microscope and grin until your cheeks hurt.

"Speaking of which," you add after a moment, "You know who I haven't seen in a long time? Dr. Watson."

"John?" Lestrade asks. "Yeah, I haven't heard from him in a bit either."

"Have you seen him much since Sherlock died?"

You look over after a few seconds' silence, because it's so unlike Lestrade to not say _anything_ when he's asked a question point blank. He's staring at some point on the table. You don't know if he's thinking or remembering. You think back to what you said: _since Sherlock died_. You can't think of anything problematic there — he's a cop, after all, who has seen his share of gore and awful things. _Since he died_ is really the nicest way to phrase it. The alternatives ( _since his suicide, since Moriarty ruined his name and everything he worked for, since he sent your career into the toilet, got you suspended, then reinstated, and are you still on probation, Greg?_ ) aren't nearly as straightforward and considerate.

"No, not really," he answers. "I keep meaning to get him out for a pint again, but between one thing and another."

"I know," you reply. "Me too. Well. Sort of." He looks up and you meet his eyes. You don’t know why your body thinks this merits embarrassment, but you can feel your cheeks burning up all the same. "I just saw today I have his number in my phone, but _..._ we never... without Sherlock, you know. Or here—he was here a lot, but usually with Sherlock."

God, does he look _pained_ every time you say Sherlock. Yes, _every time_ , he winces a little, and you have to marvel at how much he cared if he can't even stop himself from reacting like that, with his whole body, every time Sherlock's name comes up. You've heard bits and pieces of their story—why Lestrade let him "consult" for the Yard, why Lestrade would sometimes just raise his eyebrows and say "drugs bust" and Sherlock would stop whatever irritating thing he was doing—but you didn't realize that Lestrade _cared_ so much about him. Lots of people will cry at a memorial service, look sad for a week or two afterwards, but months later? Almost a year? You'll tell Irene. Sherlock should know and if he already knew, he should be reminded.

"Maybe we could all go out sometime," you suggest. "The three of us. Or would that be too depressing?"

"I'll ask," Lestrade says. He straightens up a little and leans his elbow on the counter so he can look at you for whatever reason. "The few times we've met up, we just watched whatever game was on. You'll have to use that feminine mystique to get anything out of him."

You give him your sharpest look, eyebrows knit, that deep, firm line above your nose practically a _canyon_ the way your mother told you to avoid because it would turn men off, when you look so angry and so sharp. He responds by grinning and saying, "That's the one," before he looks down at the file again. You turn back to your slides with a little flip of your hair, and from the corner of your eye, you can see him take a pen out of his pocket and write a reminder on the back of his hand.

You're feeling daring so take your phone out of your pocket and say, "Remind me to hire some children to teach Inspector Lestrade how to use his smart phone."

" _Okay, when would you like to be reminded?_ " your phone asks.

"Never," Lestrade replies, writing on the back of his hand some more with a defiant sneer on his curve of his upper lip that you realize you've been staring at for longer than you intended. "This is old school. Damn the man. Anarchy in the UK. Raaaa."

"Cancel reminder, he's hopeless," you sigh.

" _Okay, I've canceled your reminder._ "

 "Yes you have," Lestrade says.

*

You go straight home after work, think about pouring a glass of wine, finally agree with yourself that you’ve earned it. You then announce to your apartment: “Doctor Watson, I am going to Internet stalk you. Beware.”

You check his blog, but there’s no new entries, not since Sherlock died.

You’re surprised at how many John Watsons there are and how many are army doctors. No, really! There’s a strange penchant for John Watsons becoming medical researchers and specialists working with prosthetics. You might be drinking this pinot grigio a little too quickly while you think about what the other Molly Hoopers of the world are doing with their lives and how many of them are pathologists. 

What if John enlisted in the army again? 

“Well, fuck,” you say to your laptop.

You open your email and end up shopping for skirts online. You click through various styles, get up to find that sewing kit you never use with that roll of measuring tape so you can figure out what size you are for these impulse buys you’ll rarely wear because the lab is too cold for all except the dumpiest skirts (and, anyway, you can’t wear cute open-toed shoes while you freeze to death because it’s a _lab_ ). You think about what Sherlock and Irene would do in this scenario. They wouldn’t be shopping for skirts. They would sit on their hands for one or two strategic days, pick up their phone, and create an intensely believable story that would lure John out of hiding.

Except, you think, it’s _John_. You, naive, sheltered Molly Hooper, who knows so much about the insides and outsides of bodies and all that can happen to them—you believed Sherlock, much more than you should have. You let him get away with _everything_. You’ve bent the law for him in ways you never imagined; you killed him and offered a fake to the city crying out for his blood, and they ate it up because you, incorruptible, honest, Molly Hooper, could be trusted.

It’s nice to think that John would have done what you did for Sherlock, but you’re not so sure.

Then again, didn’t you perform an autopsy on the body of a man _some_ sharpshooter killed from a building away without even so much as scratching Sherlock?

The wine’s getting to you. It’s time to watch _whatever_.

*

Lestrade returns to ask more questions about his John Doe. It’s strange, but with Sherlock around, it was like having a giant, bitchy cheat sheet yelling over your shoulder all the wrong steps you had taken.

 _Like that?_ No, it _was_ that—get it right, Molly. 

Sherlock tried so hard that you barely had to, but you always went back and showed the work, as much as you should.

You and Greg have that in common, and that’s why you still have jobs. 

He’s about to leave and he says, “By the way, got in touch with John. Tomorrow night, ‘round seven?”

“What?” you ask. “Oh, drinks. The three of us?”

“If you still want to,” he replies. “He sounded keen. Well, you know. As keen as he ever does.”

You can’t remember John Watson sounding keen. Exasperated, annoyed, bemused, tired, tired, tired. Keen should be interesting.

“Yes, of course, that sounds lovely. It sounds great, really great.” 

“Great. Great great great. First round’s on you.”

“Second’s on you.”

“Sounds fair.” There’s that laughing grin again as he leaves, and he calls out, “Bye Molly,” and it’s kind of. You’re glad he’ll be there. You’re glad to see John. But you’re so glad he’ll be there. You’re great, really great.

*

You’re late and when you arrive at the pub Lestrade texted you earlier, he’s already there, at the bar, watching the highlights of some game. No John in sight, but last you heard, he’s at some busy clinic; it takes a lot of hours to keep a life together on that salary. 

You climb up on the stool next to Lestrade’s and when he turns, “This seat’s taken, okay?” already halfway out of his mouth, you smile and he brightens, a lot.

“Is it still taken? Were you expecting someone else?” you joke.

“Oh, absolutely. You are very not welcome,” he says with complete confidence. “Is what I would say if I were completely mad.” 

Once you order a drink, Lestrade sighs and pulls out his phone. “I forgot, I’m sorry. I didn’t get a table because John texted and said he couldn’t tonight. Last minute change.” He purses his lips and looks at you for a long moment, asks, “Is that all right?”

You feel your body still. Completely. It’s absolutely _not_ all right. A cold clamp has closed around your stomach and you need to leave, you do, you absolutely do, because you like Lestrade, you _like_ him, even, but you’ve been here before. You were at uni and a cute boy you liked invited to a study group, except it was just the two of you and _that’s not a problem, is it, Molly?_ And in med school with that one overbearing friend who _could not take a hint_ , and now here? With this man who should know much, much better, and who’s been through what _you’ve_ been through, been through _worse_ even, and he’s going to pull the old _OHO WHOOPS IS THIS A DATE?_ bullshit? 

“I can’t stay,” you say as your drink arrives.

“What? But—”

You lower your voice and look him into his eyes, your heart pounding almost as fast as that day you jumped into the back of a laundry truck, relocated Sherlock’s shoulder, stuffed a pre-paid mobile into his pants with only your number programmed into it, and sent him on his way before running off to cover up your criminal mastermind (fake gay? gay fake? BOTH?) ex-boyfriend’s suicide and assure the world that Sherlock Holmes was dead.

“If you want to see me, just _ask_ ,” you inform Lestrade, whose pupils have grown huge as you get in close, making sure that he’s the only one who hears you. “Don’t—don’t _trick_ me like this, or ambush me, lure me in and then—”

“Molly,” Lestrade interrupts, putting a hand firmly on your shoulder. “My phone. Can I show you?” The phone’s in his hand, has been for a few minutes now, and he’s holding it up for you to see.

You take the phone from him, look at the chain of texts with John, and when that’s not enough, you sit down again and pull out your own phone, comparing the contact information to make sure it’s John—and maybe it’s not absolutely John because you can’t remember how his contact got into your phone in the first place, but you haven’t let your phone out of your sight since the last time Sherlock stole it for his use— 

God, you are—you’re so _tired_ of suspicion and your tense shoulders that will never stop contracting. 

It matches up. You’re right. Something’s changed, though; you would swear that when you were younger, satisfaction was so much more filling. It’s never like that anymore, and winning leaves the taste of sour milk in your mouth. 

You slide Lestrade’s phone back to him on the bar and he puts his hand on yours, both your hands covering the phone. You’re not afraid or embarrassed to look him in the eye—you won’t apologize for the pure terror that came over you, that voice screaming _IF IT HAPPENED TO SHERLOCK, IT COULD HAPPEN TO YOU_. _And who would clean up your mess, Molly Hooper? No one cares like you do._

“I’ll get you a cab, all right?” he asks.

You’ve been pushing everything down for so long you forgot there was anything there, but now it’s all bubbling up and you want to scream _CABBIE MURDERS_ because remember _the cabbie murders?!_ You’ve read John’s blog, too.

“I know,” he says. You didn’t realized your hand on the bar had curled into a fist, ready to crush his phone as you Hulked out. His hand is still on yours. “This isn’t _really_ comforting, but it might help.” You shrug, the most uncasual shrug in the history of the world, and he adds, “If they wanted you, or me, or any of us dead, we’d be dead already. Long time ago.”

It’s not comforting, not in the slightest, because _they_ , whoever they are (Sherlock hadn’t explained who, neither had Irene, no one else knows you and that’s what will keep you alive, shy, quiet, unobtrusive Molly) could change their capricious minds at any moment.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’ll get a cab. Bye.”

You turn your hand, the one under his, so you’re palm to palm for a moment, grasping his hand before you slip away. He had gotten up, probably to wait for a cab with you, but you wave him off and step out the door before he can follow. You hail a cab (too quickly, you think), look at the cabbie’s face and give him your cross street before you climb in. You take a photo of their information on the back of the partition. Your cabbie tries to talk to you and you make small talk while you attach a photo of the cab number and ID to a new text for Lestrade, your finger hovering over the send button until you pull up to your building. Safety, you think as you let yourself into your building and climb the stairs. How could you have ever believed you were safe from anyone, anywhere?

*

You close the door of your apartment and stand at the threshold for a moment. It’s a one room deal and you stand there very still, looking at everything, trying to see if anything’s been moved or changed. Do you hear anything, someone trying to conceal themselves in a closet or the bathroom or the kitchen?

Nothing. The comforting sounds of the street outside, people in the apartments all around yours, and nothing in your own. You take a step forward and pull out your phone, delete that text, that photo, and you get yourself together. 

Once you’re out of your work clothes and the TV is on to keep you company, you pick up your phone again and find John Watson’s contact information. Your finger hesitates over his phone number, but you’re feeling fearless, like you just don’t _care_ anymore, and you fucking press it.

_You’ve reached John Watson. No, not that John Watson, so try again. If you’re actually calling for me, leave a message with your name and number and I’ll get back to you._

You stop to wonder if that actually works to dissuade the media, but then there’s a beep and—

And you hang up because John is too close to everything. You hope you haven’t showed your hand. Remember how staying alive means staying invisible? 

He was just a wrong number. You got the wrong number.

*

You come back to your lab after lunch and there’s a cup of Starbucks coffee waiting for you. The barista wrote on the side _molly’s always right_ and you know you don’t like it, though you should find it adroable. Maybe it was Lestrade, making amends. Maybe it was Irene. Maybe you should just stay out of it. 

It’s tricky, being both so in the know and so—

You leave the lab, dump the whole coffee, cup and all, in a bin, and casually head two levels up to Mike Stamford’s office.

You run into him accidentally before you have a chance to run into him deliberately, and he gets a little of his own post-lunch coffee on your coat.

“Oh,” you say after a short lament for your standard issue coat that you had just gotten as soft and comfortable as you wanted. “You—your John’s friend? John Watson?”

Mike is, of course he is, they’re old, _old_ friends, and he’s heard of you, too.

“Shame about—everything,” Mike says as he offers you some napkins he had with him.

“I know, I can’t believe it’ll be a year soon,” you sigh. Split the sigh in half: half for Sherlock, half for the coffee stain. You’re just so vain, aren’t you?

God, no one ever told you that the key to lying was believing yourself to be as stupid as others saw you.

“He and John would come by sometimes and use my lab for— well, I believe in him. Him and John. I always checked their work when they weren’t looking. They were always right.”

“I’m sure John checked, too. Always a meticulous little stickler,” Mike laughs. “He’s still working at that clinic nearby, do you know it?”

You do know it, but you don’t know Mike well enough, and for all you know, he could be playing the same game you are. Before you get back on your way, you ask,

“And how’s John doing?”

“I’ll let him know you asked,” Mike says, a sad smile at the corner of his mouth. You mimic it and part ways in the hall.

You stop and see a friend who actually works up here, but the whole time you think over the exchange with Mike, wonder where you went wrong, what will get you killed, but you may have done all right, Dr. Hooper. Don’t pat yourself on the back yet, but you may have done all right.

*

Two days later, John Watson lets himself into your lab while you’re examining slices of someone’s liver. His eyes sweep around the room, that look around that no one else does quite so obviously.

“Hi, Molly,” he says.

“Wow! Hi! Surprised to see you here,” you say.

His whole browline curls into this ugly, skeptical thing, and you raise your own eyebrows at him, eyes wide, wondering what he could mean.

“Happened to run into Mike?” he asks.

“He works on the same floor as a friend of mine.” You look down at your coat as he steps around the counter to where you’re sitting, still keeping his distance. “Literally ran into him. Coffee and all.”

You’re holding that part of your coat that you would swear is still stained except you know the cleaners here in the building do an excellent job of getting rid of that stuff. John is still looking at you, watching you, breathing evenly. You wonder how he could have been anything but a soldier. Look at the straight line of his shoulders, his posture—his most casual is your most formal. How did he get through med school with posture like that? 

Yet this isn’t the man who’d shove his hands into his worn-out jacket’s pockets and threaten to leave Sherlock for a box of lo mein and never come back to him, huff off as promised when Sherlock retorted _I have my address sewn into my shirt like a good boy, I’ll be home soon_ and that wasn’t good enough for him.

“How are you?” you ask. “How are you doing? It’s been a while.”

“It has,” John agrees. “I’m... fine.”

“Yes, me too,” you reply.

“Oh, _are you_ ,” he asks. “Because here I am, in this lab where I think I’ve spent more hours than in my flat, here with _you_ , and I don’t know.” He laughs a short laugh, a tiny one, less awkward than Irene’s but a bit more frightening because you’ve heard it in movies from gunmen who are about to lose it. “Don’t know how you stay where when it all _reeks_ of him.”

“They pay me enough,” you joke. You feel your mouth tighten into that unattractive line you know so well from looking at yourself in the mirror and a lifetime of photos.

“Sorry I couldn’t make it to drinks the other day,” he says, once he’s collected himself again, an exasperated sigh later. “Did you and Lestrade have a good time?”

“I couldn’t stay after all,” you reply. “We should try again, though. It’d be nice.”

“Don’t know that it would,” he says.

“Greg’s really funny, and I can buy you mozzarella sticks until you think I am, too.”.

He laughs again. You wonder how much Irene and Sherlock want out of this, out of him. Would Irene be satisfied with, “He’s fine,” or should you dig deeper to try and construct a day in the life of post-Sherlock John Watson?

“He’s just Greg now, hm?” John asks.

You feel your eyes go wide and it takes you too long to say, “No, well, yes, I mean, that’s his _name_ , isn’t it?”

“Did I tell you Sherlock _didn’t know his name_ until, oh, I don’t know, last _March_?”

“You did!” You laugh, covering your mouth with your sleeve. “I still don’t believe it.”

“Oh, you should. He said he’d lock all the important information in the world, like tire treads and the smell of every street in London, the weather in Wales—all that goes in the _mind palace_.”

Suddenly, you remember sitting in the lab with them, the first time John told you this. It was after they returned from their weekend in Dartmoor. You and Sherlock had been working on one side of the counter, Sherlock at the microscope, you poking at some cultures, and John who had stopped by after a shift because what else was he going to do? John sat on a stool, hands in his jacket pockets until they came out and he began to do little hand gestures from various Michael Jackson videos to demonstrate the flow of Sherlock’s thoughts— “Thriller,” particularly, though you and John had gotten “Black or White” stuck in your heads, humming it until you all left and Sherlock had said loudly, “DAMMIT, now I’m thinking about it, too. You’ve _contaminated_ my mind palace.”

“And then shit that no one cares about,” John continues, the past and the present overlapping so strangely for you, everything tinted a little warmer with familiarity, “You know, his mother’s birthday, his _brother’s_ birthday, when the rent is due, Lestrade’s first name, all of that was thrown out with the bathwater.”

“What an idiot,” you say, and you hear so much fondness in your voice.

“I know,” he replies. 

You look at each other with some concern and John is the first one to speak again. “My therapist noticed I’ve stopped talking about him in the present tense. Switched to the past tense.”

“That’s progress,” you say.

“Yeah,” he says. “I... for so long, I didn’t want to forget. Didn’t want to move on. Just wanted to keep being there, right there, those last days at Baker Street.” He looks around again and says, “That last night here.”

You don’t think about it often, but you feel it now: a very solid partition in your mind between truth and secret, between Sherlock is dead and Sherlock is alive. It doesn’t bother you, but it’s there, making itself known. You have to ignore it, maybe forever, definitely for the next five minutes or so. You’ve never been trusted with a secret this big, one that could make or break a person’s world the way this one can. You don’t feel guilt, it’s more like pity: here’s a very good doctor, a scientist like you, drawing conclusions on information you know to be faulty, and you have to allow him to be wrong because it’s for the best.

“But you’re better now.” It’s a statement, not a question, and John nods. 

 _Well_. John nods, looks guilty for nodding, grips the bridge of his nose tightly, takes a deep deep breath, comes to a conclusion, looks up, meets your eyes, and doesn’t allow his look to waver as he nods at you again. It’s a process. You understand that. You’ve been told that. You’ve told people that, actually, when you were a resident proper, taking care of people who then went on to died. They usually had families, and you had pamphlets about the grieving process for them. You rarely had a chance to see acceptance, but this looks like it.

“Much as I wanted to Havisham the place up, it’s just not possible. I have to pay the bills, buy groceries—sitting around tearing out the little hair I’ve got left isn’t conducive to all that.”

“That’s probably why the holidays are such a splendid time to be depressed—all those days off from work,” you say, awkward, sad, and true enough to pry another smile from him.

“I have to get back to the clinic,” John says. “Do you have my number? Wait, you should. Hopefully you still do. I put it in your phone one day when we were all faffing about here.”

“Did you?” you ask. “Why?”

“You know how Sherlock was about answering his phone, and I just... wanted to keep tabs on him. So. I figured you’d text if you needed something, or if he was—anything.”

“Do you have mine?” He doesn’t. “Actually, I may have dialed you a few days ago while trying to reach someone else.”

You take his phone, find that missed call, save yourself as a new contact. As you fill in those fields on the screen, you stay quiet and try to listen, like you do in your apartment when you enter every night. What can you hear?

Street noise. Muffled talking in the hall outside. The fans that are always running in the building to ensure you’re always a few degrees from freezing to death. John breathing quietly. Your fingers pressing on the tiny keys of his phone—

And then there’s only John yelling your name and pushing you to the floor, the click of the gun you _knew_ he was still carrying around—all of that just as you’re about to scream because Sherlock appears at the door.

**Author's Note:**

> Note! That this is a work in progress without a real timeline, so.


End file.
